


Hotrock's Corner of Drabble Babble

by hotrockcandy



Category: Fallout 2, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Drabbles, Gen, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Just here doing the things, Let's face it my grammar and punctuation is crap, Unbeta'd, don't mind me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2018-10-03 20:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10257995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotrockcandy/pseuds/hotrockcandy
Summary: All inspired by roleplay with one of my best friends. Came up with this character on a whim and I've grown to love him. These are completely unbeta'd and will most likely have work not just from me but from my friend as well. Read it or not. I just like having a place to document my written work. It's all spur of the moment drabbles and will have the most horrendous grammar on the face of the earth. You have been warned!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're actually reading this, you are a brave soul. Welcome to my brain where I just write stuff that comes to mind and call it a day. The character's name is Thomas Fletcher. Born to a prostitute in Miss Kitty's Brothel, he grows up to be a drug runner for Big Jesus Mordino and then joins NCR once he sees just how powerful they are. These are just little snippets I've written that shows what's happened in his life from childhood to adulthood.

From what Tommy was taught, war was never something to enjoy. It wasn’t supposed to be fun or a vacation from the day to day of life. It was horrible. Terrifying. Brother against brother. Sisters fighting each other. Human versus human. His ma didn’t like it so therefore _he_ didn’t like it.

He also never liked the Brotherhood of Steel. Always thought they were a little off. He remembered them from New Reno. The men standing guard in front of a steel door that lead to god knew where. They always gave Wastelanders dirty looks and when they went to the Cat’s Paw they were rude to the girls. Like they weren’t _good_  enough for em. The Tinheads paid well though so Miss Kitty kept them around. Ever since Tommy joined the NCR he knew he was going to be fighting more. His life expectancy dropped substantially (which was already low to begin with) and as much as he didn’t like the thought of dying, he knew that with his death his mother would receive a compensation and be well off for the rest of her life. _That_  thought settled the fear a little. Even as he was sitting pretty on a rock, watching Tinheads march in a small platoon heading south. Their direction was New Vegas. It made sense why they’d be going. NCR wanted the HELIOS One power plant and the BOS wasn’t going to give it up without a fight.

It was times like this where Tommy wondered if by leaving Big Jesus he left a demon to work for a devil. The BOS weren’t bad guys. They were just protecting what was theirs. Just like any other Wastelander on this godforsaken land. He understood them and hated what was about to happen. The spotter next to him, nudged his side and Tommy shifted ever so slightly to get comfortable. He had the scope to his rifle covered so they couldn’t see the glint of light. It was the early evening with the sun dipping crimson into the horizon. Tommy took the cap of the scope and found his target. He knew that the armor had a weak spot at the neck. That’s where he’ll shoot. The last thing he thought before pulling the trigger was that the sky looked particularly beautiful. Up above, stars twinkled among shades of pink and orange.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actually put a little effort into this. Kinda. In any case, just dropping this off here. May come back to it later if I'm not entirely pleased with how it turned out.

With a pained shout, Thomas slammed the butt of his sequoia into the Legionnaire’s face for the final time.

He had beaten the man to death. He had to give it to him. It had taken _quite_  a few hits to the face before it started to cave in and the Legionnaire was choking on blood and teeth. Even then, Thomas didn't stop. Couldn't let any of them survive to tell the tale.

It was a rough way to go. By the time the man stopped twitching and his final breath left his lungs, Thomas had pushed himself away from the body and settled against a rock that was situated next to the two combatants. He didn’t have time to reload his gun once he ran out of bullets. There had been too many of them. He did now though and with trembling blood slicked fingers, he pushed .44s into each cylinder until it was full of metal. He snapped the revolver back into place and made sure to reload his rifle as well. That one had made a bloody mess out of one of the Legionnaires, the .50 cal round blowing nearly half of his torso away. He died instantly. He was lucky. Tommy was luckier. After he made sure he was prepared for any more recon enemy scouts, he was finally able to focus on his knee.

The red HUD did nothing to show him the damage but he could still feel it. Even through the shot of Med-X he jabbed into his thigh during the ambush firefight that started this whole thing. He unhooked his helmet and slowly tugged it off, letting the heavy item fall to the ground next to him. For a moment the sun blinded him, the world that was normally red turning into shades of beige and dusty browns. Blood always seemed redder in reality. For a moment, he welcomed the dry desert air that cooled the sweat on his brow. It was a brief moment of relief within the tidal wave of hurt he was feeling once all that adrenaline started to taper off. The Med-X for the pain had ever so slightly dialed it down from excruciating to blinding.

Thomas would take what he could get.

He leaned forward and tugged off his knapsack, looking for his medkit. He didn’t bother to look at his knee. Maybe he didn’t want to look at it. It felt bad enough. Worst the moment the bullet hit. It had brought him down. Hard. He had gotten shot before. Bullets grazing whatever limb that was unlucky enough to get hit. Gut shot that would have killed him if it wasn’t for his riot gear. It certainly _felt_  like it would have killed him. He was bruised in that spot for weeks. But that didn’t compare to this. The round found its way past the knee pad he was wearing and got itself stuck right in there. He could feel it. Jingle jangling right under the cap.

He was gonna have to get it out. Pulling out the necessary tools, he tugged off his gloves and finally looked down at his knee. It wasn’t obliterated…but it could have been. The knee pad prevented that from happening. Tugging a knife out of the boot of his good leg he set forth on gently cutting the pad off. Every bump and jostle of his knee shot pain up his leg so fierce, he bled his lip from biting down on it to keep himself from making noise. By the time he got the knee pad off, he was pale and shaking. He got the pants ripped open as best he could. It was enough for him to see the damage. His knee was shattered. Shifted in an awkward angle that didn’t bode well. Blood was steadily pouring from the entry point, staining the ground under his leg with slick redness.

“Well...Fuck.” He stated. He was gonna need a lot more Med-X. And whiskey.

Two shots of Med-X and nearly half a bottle of booze later, he was ready to take the bullet out with a pair of tweezers. One thing Tommy would never forget. The feeling of slowly working those metal tweezers in his knee, trying not to bump into bone as he worked to take the slippery bullet out. Perhaps the whiskey wasn't a good idea, but he needed courage to do what he was about to do. Without crying. Thomas not only had to work carefully but he had to be quick about it. The .32 round was an absolute _bitch_  to remove and he had to work it out of his knee. Which meant jiggling the round a bit before he could yank it out. He was panting around a scarf, having shoved it into his mouth to muffle his sounds of pain. In the empty wastes, a scream could carry for miles and there were plenty of critters with good hearing. Those legionnaires'll make a good meal for the ones that'll come sniffing when they catch the scent of blood in the air. It'll slow them down once they start sniffing out for _him_.

Still, he cried once he had gotten the bullet out. And it's something he'll take to the grave, if it didn't catch up with him first.

Best he hurry up. Could have sworn he heard something in the distance...Tugging out two stimpaks, he stuck them both near the wound site and depressed the needles. Was the real deal, too. Not that 200 year old shit. Came from Vault City. For a moment, he remembered the first time walking into that town. Not as clean and sterile as everyone likes to think but Vault City was the only place with a real deal hospital. Labs. All that science shit. Not things he was good at but sometimes interested him.

Back then he was a different man. 

He tossed the used stimpaks and watched as his wound slowly stopped bleeding. Still amazed him. Even to this day. Wouldn't last too long so he had to make those two count. Taking his scarf, he wrapped it around his leg and secured it with a tight knot that lit his nerves alive with pain. He took a calming breath, not only to allow himself to accept the pain and let it pass, but to deal with the sudden nausea that hit from how bad it was.

"Fuck." Breath. "Fuck..."

With a little wasteland ingenuity, Thomas used the spears the legionnaires were carrying as makeshift splints and cane to help with his hobbling. He shoved his helmet back on and looked out to the horizon. In the distance he knew Nipton was there. And where there was Nipton…there was help. With his knapsack slung onto his back with his rifle, he set forth on his journey. As the sun went down, he could hear the distant howls of coyotes. Knew he heard something earlier. His grip tightened on his sequoia. He didn’t survive this long to have a knee wound take him down.

The Mojave was quiet. Still. Like it was waiting for something. He took another step forward. A limp. Let the demons of the night come. He had a bullet with their names on it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aww jeez. Another one, I guess. Will come back to it eventually.

The very first time Thomas had to kill a man, he was 12 years old. He knew how to handle a gun. He had training. He was sent to The Den with a satchel full of Jet. It was a drop off and pick up gig. His first one. Wasn’t old enough for the big time. Not yet. The dealer he had to give the bag to was sketchy as fuck. Thomas didn’t trust him but he didn’t trust anyone. Hell, he didn’t even trust the kids running around. Orphans. Vagabonds. Would sooner kill their own than give themselves up. There was no honor among thieves.

The dealer, Mitch, made him wait in an out of the way alley. As if _that_  wasn't suspicious at all. The entire town was a cesspool of all the worst things that humanity could offer and there he was. Standing around like an asshole waiting for another asshole to show up. Still, he had unwarranted faith that Mitch was on the up and up until he showed with two other adults flanking his sides. Thomas immediately knew it was a set up. He was young but he wasn’t stupid. _Great_. “Where’s the caps?” He asked as Mitch strolled on up like he didn't just keep Thomas waiting for 15 goddamn minutes. Dude looked twitchy. Bare arms covered in puncture marks. Looked more like a user than a dealer and Thomas would have dismissed him as such if it wasn’t for the thugs trailing behind him. Thomas gripped firmly on the satchel slung around his shoulder. 9mm in the waistband of his threadbare pants. A hand moving to rest on the handle. He looked like he meant business even though his voice cracked. Puberty was a bitch. At least he was big for his age. Almost as tall as Mitch even. The guy smirked at the young man, yellowed teeth flashing when cracked lips parted. Thomas took a step back for his own safety, a move that didn’t go unnoticed.

“The caps? Well it’s right here. In my pocket.” The two goons behind the dealer chuckled. Condescending assholes. Thomas fought the urge to roll his eyes. “You owe Big Jesus 200 caps. I got the shipment if you have the caps. If not I’ll just take my business elsewhere and let Big Jesus know that you won’t be working for him any longer.” At least his voice didn’t crack this time. Mitch looked back at the goons before all three of them burst into laughter. Like they couldn’t believe the audacity of the boy in front of them. Even Thomas couldn't believe how big his balls got at that moment. _Don't get too confident kid. Confidence'll get ya killed_. “How about this. You give me the drugs, we kill some punk kid that no one gives a shit about and keep the caps and the jet?” Well then. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to go smoothly. That’s what he was told. What he was promised. Big Jesus did tell him that if he needed to defend himself he should. The deal was over. Mitch made it very clear. His grip on the 9 mm tightened as one of the goons stepped forward, pulling out a gun of his own. 10mm catching the light of the midday sun on its chrome back. Life or death. Don’t let them get the draw on you. They underestimate you because you’re a kid. Make them regret it. Heart pumping adrenaline through his body. He could taste sour in his mouth. He was scared. He was pissed. He wasn't going to go down without a fight.

Now or never.

He dropped low, yanking the gun from his waist band and while pointing it at Goon #1, he pulled the trigger. It was loud. Louder than the blood that sprayed from the back of Goon #1’s head from the round that made impact. He didn’t give the other fucker a chance. He pulled the trigger and a bullet made its home in Goon #2’s gut. The man doubled over and groaned in pain. It was loud. So loud that he didn’t hear Mitch’s shout of anguish. Thomas didn't hear what Mitch was shouting. Only the noise that trailed behind it. He didn’t see the familiar vial that was used for psycho. The next bullet found itself into Goon #2’s head. His ears were ringing. His mind reeling. So focused on his handiwork that he didn't see the figure running up on him. Mitch was on him as he looked up out of instinct, hands wrapping around his young throat and shoving him down to the ground. Mitch was screaming at him. Spittle flying into his face. The sun too bright in his eyes as his back hit the dirt. Thomas's hand was up, pressing against the guy’s face. Trying to shove it away. Shove him away.

Black spots were starting to form before his eyes. Floating over the dealer’s shadowed face. The hand holding onto the gun was starting to tingle. Head getting light. Weight of an adult man on his chest. Can’t breathe. He had almost forgotten-And suddenly the weight on his throat lessened and there was a loud crack. The side of his face hurt. A lot.

It was like reality snapped back into place the moment he realized that he was going to die.

He was there. He was still alive. He can still fight.

He gripped onto the 9mm and brought it up. The barrel was pointed at Mitch's chest. Another fist collided with his face and he pulled the trigger. This time his gun was the loudest thing in the alleyway. Mitch stopped, frozen as he tried assess the fact that he had gotten shot. The drugs pumping in his system hadn’t dulled the pain soon enough. He glanced down at his shirt, turning steadily wet. Thomas pulled the trigger again. And again. Until it there was nothing left and clicks were following the echoes of gunfire. Mitch finally fell over. Psycho couldn’t save him. Shaking, Thomas sat up and searched the dealer’s pockets for caps. He took them all and shoved it into the satchel. The one thing he nearly died for. Standing up was an ordeal. Legs couldn’t seem to work. Or didn’t want to. His head was ringing from the strikes to it, eye and cheek swelling at an alarming rate. He was covered in blood. Thomas looked around at the bodies he left behind with his good eye, and a wave of nausea hit him. He did that. He killed. For his boss. To protect his assets.

Now he was a made man.

The copper scent of blood was strong in the air. How did he not smell it until now? It was overpowering and he felt his gorge rise into his sore throat. The next five minutes saw him bent over, throwing up whatever he had in his stomach all over the side of the building. Mole rat never sat well in his stomach anyways. Wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked around. No one came. They didn’t even care. Taking a breath, he reloaded his 9mm and shoved the blood splattered gun into his waistband. The satchel felt heavy. He felt heavy. As he walked forward, he caught his reflection in some steel that lined the side of an old pre-war building. His eyes didn’t look the same.

After that day, they never did.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want you can let me know what you think. Maybe. I don't know. These aren't exactly for read and review but if you want, go ahead!


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